The Feral
by lafiametta
Summary: It's fight night at the Citadel, a tradition on the nights before the supply runs to Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. The war boys are cranked up, Furiosa's on edge for her own private reasons, and there's a new psychotic feral making its debut in the ring. One shot.


_**A/N: After seeing**_ **Mad Max** _ **, I went on a bit of a Tom Hardy binge and ended up watching**_ **Warrior** _ **, which was pretty freaking amazing. The fight scenes were super intense, and then my brain-wheels started turning, and I couldn't think of anything more shiny and chrome than a**_ **Mad Max** _ **/**_ **Warrior** _ **mash-up. Part of my inspiration also came from the sense (and I'm not alone in this, I hope) that Max and Furiosa seem to have some tiny spark of recognition when they see each other for the first time in the movie. Enjoy!**_

* * *

She hears the war boys first, their shouts and strangled yells echoing like a demented chorus through the narrow underground hallways. At least several hundred of them, by her gauge.

Stepping inside the low-ceilinged chamber, Furiosa is assaulted by the smell of closely-pressed men, sweat and vomit, the heady metallic fumes of chrome. The room is darkened, pulsing with movement, nervous energy and excitement seeping out of each war-painted body. Punctuating the roar of voices are the explosive cranks of an amplified guitar, surely being churned out by the blind Doof himself. Compared to the hushed feminine murmurs she has just spent the last hour attending to, the noise is oppressive, jarring. A large space has been cleared in the center of the room, in anticipation of the evening's entertainment, and war boys cling to the edge, not wanting to lose a good position from which to see all the action.

"Nearly ready, boss," her junior lieutenant, a lanky half-life called Runk, says, having found her in the crowd.

"The main event, they've got them primed?" she half-yells over the noise. She shouldn't have to ask questions like that at this point, but Runk hasn't been on the job long and it shows. For a moment, she misses her old lieutenant, Pit, who could assume responsibility without constant reassurance; unfortunately for her – and for him, too, she supposes – he was killed twenty days ago when a crate-load of grenade lances accidentally exploded on their way to the armory.

Runk nods at her, all too eager to please. "Picked up a fine specimen a few days ago up by the Powder Lakes. Pure psychotic feral."

"Heard it nearly escaped," she says, in harsh reproval. She doesn't really plan to discipline her lieutenant for the lapse in security, but of course he doesn't know that, and she's content enough just to see him look appropriately terrified.

"Nah, boss, they got it back right quick," he reassures her. "Put it straight in the cage. They're gettin' it amped up now, so an' it'll be ready."

"Good–"

The crowd erupts and she looks up to see two freshly-painted war boys emerge in separate corners of the open space. Both raise their arms, fingers steepled together, in homage to V8, and then begin to shuffle closer, loosely circling around each other, their fists tight and guarded. Spectators surge forward in excitement, only to be shoved back into place by those lining the edge. The first event is merely a taste, just to get the crowd ready, normally a match-up between two first-timers, buzzed up on chrome, without any real idea as to what they're doing.

 _So excitable, these war pups_ , she thinks, _so over-confident. One thirty-second dust-up in the garage or the mechanicals' workshop and they think they're ready for the ring._ They'll circle for a while, nerves and hesitation getting the better of them, until the crowd bays for action, resulting in a back-and-forth of poorly-aimed blows. Eventually, she knows, one will tire and lose focus, making himself an easy target for a rough, knock-out strike to the head.

And then, after the loser is dragged away, there'll be a frenzy of wager-settling, canisters of chrome and customized weapons passing back and forth in the dimly-lit chaos. Within minutes, another bout will begin.

She supposes these nights are necessary, as repetitive and predictable as they tend to be, a way to harness the war boys' anticipation and anxiety over the supply runs to Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. The Fury Road is safer these days, less prone to attacks by hostiles and desert scavengers, but anything is possible, in this world at least. She knows the Immortan is not fond of such entertainments either – _too distracting_ , he roared, _a waste of chrome and blood_ – but he turns a blind eye and lets them continue, knowing that they stoke the flames of war frenzy in his followers, bringing them closer to sacrifice and annihilation in his name.

"How many are up tonight?" she asks Runk, who still hasn't left her side.

"After this one, two, and then the main event."

She nods: four is a good number, just enough to wear them all out, make them sleep soundly. But she'd rather not leave her lieutenant with too strong a sense of her approval, not when he hasn't earned it.

"You just make sure they don't wait too long in between… Last time there was nearly a riot," she warns. "And you better hope your feral is as crazy as it sounds," she adds. As she walks away, she offers one last narrowed look to make sure that he understands not to bother her again.

She skirts the edge of the crowd, watching the young war boys weakly grapple with each other, wrapped in a combative embrace, until one brings his fist below the other's chin, knocking the jaw up into the skull, releasing a spray of spit and blood.

Normally, she wouldn't stay to watch, but tonight she wants the distraction. If she goes back to her quarters, she'll only be alone with her fears, alone with the knowledge of what she's about to do tomorrow. She's spent days upon days running the scenarios in her head, considering all the ways her plan could go wrong, accounting for every variable. If she thinks much more on it, she'll drive herself insane.

Still, there had been complications, even tonight, when they were so close.

" _The girls, they're nervous,"_ Miss Giddy had said earlier, pulling her aside before she left the Vault. _"They're afraid you'll all be caught."_

By chrome, she had thought she was done with assurances, with cajoling, with artfully filling their minds with promises of escape and freedom, stories of a paradise where they would no longer be things. Were they still so in thrall to his power that they could not see this might be their only chance?

" _Tell them the green place is waiting,"_ she had replied. _"The Many Mothers are waiting for them."_

Although, in retrospect, she might simply have been telling that to herself.

The first fight is taking too long to conclude, the action devolving into the two exhausted combatants weakly shoving each other back and forth, and the crowd is becoming loose and restless. Finally, _finally_ , one of them – the one who landed the upper cut earlier, she thinks, although it's difficult to tell through the smeared paint and blood – slices an elbow across his opponent's cheekbone, causing him to crumple to the ground like so much dead weight. A triumphant cry goes up among the supporters of the victor, transforming into rough chants that shake the earthen walls of the chamber.

The next fight is over far too quickly, the result of an unequal match-up, and she reminds herself to determine which of her subordinates was responsible for such negligence after she returns from the supply run, only to realize that if all goes according to plan, she will not be returning at all. With this thought, she feels the steel vise in her belly tightening once again, and she takes several deep breaths in the hope of loosening it.

Thankfully, the third fight is quite engrossing, involving more experienced fighters, older war boys with enough strength and finesse to keep the crowd excited. But the full anticipation is reserved for the final fight, the main event, when the war boys will step aside for those who have fully nothing left to lose.

She doesn't know when they originally conceived of the idea of having the blood bags fight; certainly it must have seemed as strange then as it does now. Why would you want to risk such a resource? Why hazard a single drop? Certainly that would be true of most blood bags, who took to their role like docile pets, content to be fed and drained, over and over and over again, until their bodies at last gave out and they were given a quick and painless end.

But there were always a few – inevitably those caught out in the Wasteland, the solitary ferals – who would never be broken, no matter how many times they were bled. They struggled and fought so ferociously within the bonds of their captivity; why would they not do the same when brought into the ring and made to do so for sport? She has seen many things in this unforgiving world, but still, it always shocked her a little, like watching a pair of wild animals bare their teeth and lunge forward to attack. The trick was to stop them before anyone was gravely injured – there couldn't be any real risks to the stock, of course – although she herself has witnessed the results of their brutality: eyes gouged out, ears bitten off, a fishhook to the mouth and a quick rip that left the recipient with a savagely stitched grin trailing up from lip to ear.

She would have thought it impossible for the room to get any louder, but there is an intensifying roar from the back of the room, indicating the arrival of the feral blood bags. They are brought out in chains, wearing only trousers and the metal restraint masks locked around their faces, and are quickly surrounded by the crowd of shrieking war boys as they pass towards the open ring. It is hard to get a measure of them, with their faces so obscured, but both are meatily built, straining within the confines of their fetters, eyes full of rage and confusion.

She finds herself unconsciously moving closer to the ring, eyes fixed on the ferals, not noticing as the nearby war boys deferentially move aside to let her pass.

They seem to sense their chains are about to be removed and begin to thrash about wildly, requiring the restraining arms of several war boys to keep them under control. The cuffs are quickly done away with and then with a quick snap, the muzzles are unlocked, revealing weathered, hard-bitten features, mouths curled into wordless snarls.

One of them – broad-shouldered, with badly-cropped brown hair – is unfamiliar to her, and she assumes this is the psychotic feral, the one that tried to run. She studies it for a moment, watches as it takes in the scene with narrowed eyes, sweeping its gaze over the volatile crowd and the blood-spattered ground of the ring. Its expression fascinates her; it's almost as if it was looking on the entire proceedings with disdain, that is, of course, if ferals were capable of such a thing.

The crowd thunders its approval, a sound too chaotic to be considered rhythmic, as the two combatants are hauled to separate sides of the open space. War boys take turns screaming in their faces, slapping them around the head, all designed to rile them up just before they are let loose upon each other. The agitation is mostly for show, however; she knows that before they were brought out, each was injected directly in the neck with a syringe full of chrome, visible from the telltale puncture mark left by the crude tools of the Organic Mechanic.

It should take almost nothing, then, for their true nature to be unleashed; it waits only for this very moment, as they are roughly shoved towards each other across the empty space.

But the noise shifts, and she can tell from the crowd's reaction that something strange is happening in the center of the ring; she pushes her way forward, angling for a space at the edge of the line of spectators. What she sees there is something she could never have anticipated.

The two ferals have joined together, a flailing mass of flesh and muscle, yet somehow only one is attacking. The other stands, arms protecting its face, doing its best to block off blows, but seemingly refusing to fight. Taking advantage of the situation, its opponent begins to rain down a series of bare-knuckled strikes, first against its shoulders, its stomach, the side of its head, and then brings a sharp knee into its solar plexus. It staggers for a moment, disoriented, hand stretched out for balance, the other hand clutched against its bleeding ear, against the ends of its unevenly-cut hair.

 _Some psychotic feral_ , she thinks.

It swivels around, its back now visible to her, and she is close enough to read the jagged words etched into its skin. Even upside down she can recognize what it says, and she feels herself seizing with anger and fear. _Universal Donor_. She cannot believe that any of her officers would be possessed of enough stupidity to risk a blood bag this valuable, no matter how psychotic it might seem. She watches wide-eyed as the onslaught from its opponent continues, panic slipping into her veins. How is it possible that it is continuing to take this kind of punishment, without any impulse to fight back? _By chrome, it cannot die. Or we all will._

The crowd of war boys, howling with frustration at watching an entirely one-sided contest, their source of entertainment being filched away, begin to direct their anger at the passive feral, screaming at it, jeering, baying for the return of their prize. They're crazed enough, and if something doesn't happen soon, she senses, they're liable to storm the ring and take matters into their own hands, blood bag or no.

 _Start fighting, you fool_ , _or they'll rip you apart._

Taking advantage of the feral's weakened state, its opponent offers a pounding kick straight to the ribs, causing it to collapse to the ground, and it halfheartedly curls onto its side, as if waiting, anticipating the blows that will come from above. It is difficult to watch, and she knows that if there were anything in her heart resembling pity, she would be feeling it now. She quickly scans the crowd, looking for her lieutenant, hoping that he has the presence of mind to try to hold the crowd back once the knock-out strike is delivered, to find a way to transport the feral back to the Blood Shed without any resistance from the enraged war boys.

In the periphery of her sight, she catches a small movement: the feral is still on the ground, but its hands reach out in front of it, as if touching something – _someone?_ – that only it can see. Its eyes stare out, widening and hardening at the same time, its teeth bared, its face a frozen mask of horror. Its body may be here, in this ring, she realizes, but its mind is somewhere else, somewhere far, far worse.

Breathing heavily with effort, its opponent walks over to the feral's prone form, raising its foot with the clear intention of smashing it down upon its target's face. She does not particularly want to watch, but she has no choice; she is an Imperator, and it would be a clear show of weakness to look away.

Suddenly, the feral blinks, its eyes now rapidly apprehending its surroundings, the immediacy of the danger that threatens it, and in a movement so fast she cannot even comprehend it, grabs hold of its opponent's leg and pulls, dropping its attacker to the ground like a stone. The crowd screams in surprise and exultation, now that the contest seems to be starting anew.

Scrambling to his feet, the feral braces his body for combat, chin tucked down, fists up to guard. Its opponent, too, appears to have recovered from the shock of being laid low, and hops up, choosing this moment to charge at the feral with an animalistic roar. For a moment she thinks it will all be over again, once its opponent begins to strike the way it had before, but the feral is able to turn quickly to its right, avoiding the collision, and throws a rough punch into its target's jaw. Its opponent is stunned momentarily, shaking its head back and forth as if waking up from a particularly nasty dream, only to be met with a second blow that glances off its temple.

Her eyes, though, are on the feral, on the quick shift in his hips as he comes back to a fighting stance, her gaze held captive by the anticipatory tension written into the muscles of his forearms. This was no true psychotic, she could tell. Despite the crudity of the blows, there was too much precision in the way he handled himself. Only practice gave you that, the work of hour upon hour, day upon day, until every movement was branded permanently into the memory of your body.

The two combatants meet again in the center of the ring, circling, looking for an opening from which to strike. Among the spectators, the energy is electric, fueled by the steady flow of adrenaline, blood-lust, and additional hits of chrome.

The feral watches guardedly, holding back until the last moment, and then suddenly charges forward, pressing his opponent back across the open space, until they both collide into the wall of frenzied war boys. Still, he does not relent, cascading blow after blow into his opponent's body. With a collective shove, the war boys push the two back into the ring. She can see that without the war boys holding it up, the feral's opponent is crumpling slightly, back bowing, and the feral responds with an upwards knee, slamming sharply into the chin. It is almost as if she is watching the movements in slow motion: the head-snap, the backwards stumble, the weighty collapse onto the ground. Even as his opponent raises itself up on all fours and then lurches upwards in bewildered rage, searching for something to tear apart, she is still carefully studying the feral, his vigilant glare, his ready fists, the roll of his shoulders.

As she watches him, watches his movements, she finds that she is clenching her own fists, as if she is preparing herself to fight, as if she herself is standing in the ring. The muscles of her arms twitch with movement, striking imaginary blows, for combat is a language written into her body, one not easily ignored. As he draws blood again, she unconsciously cries out in exhilaration.

Time slows to a crawl, and then speeds past her like a nitro-boosted dune buggy. The deafening sounds of the war boys fade into a muted hum, and she hears only the staccato beat of her own pulse. She has no sense of how long she has been standing there, eyes ablaze.

She realizes her voice is hoarse from screaming.

The two combatants are locked together in the center of the space, arms tight around one another, rings of skin and sinew, as if they are a single body, a single breathing thing. They are tiring, nearing the end of their own strength. She does not know what is going to happen; everything seems to be sitting on this moment.

The feral pulls his head back slightly: to any outside observer, it might resemble an animal preparing to bare its throat to its acknowledged dominant, but she knows better. And then there is only the terrible and glorious sound of bone against bone, the heaping thud as the feral's opponent collapses onto the ground, the feral's expressionless face and the stream of blood that starts to trickle from his forehead down against the side of his nose.

She would have expected a victory cry, a roar of triumph. Even she, in moments of unabashed war-lust, has been known to let out bloody shrieks of jubilation, losing herself in the intoxicating rush that only comes with fully vanquishing another. Instead, he makes no sound, only looks up from the ground where his opponent lies, unmoving, and gazes straight at her.

Everything is chaos, bristling with movement and noise, everything but the stilled space that lies between them. She cannot look away, her breath wrapped tight within her chest, transfixed as she is on the brilliant, penetrating darkness in his gaze.

 _Why does he look at me that way, with his sharp eyes, as if he knows my secrets?_

And then he is surrounded by a swarm of whitened bodies, the brief connection between them broken. She can barely make out the top of his head as he is chained and masked once again, hauled away from the ring, no doubt to be deposited back in the Blood Shed, within the iron fetters of his cage.

Still rooted to the earthen floor, she feels a strange bubbling in her heart, a vain protest against the idea of seeing him so confined, living out the remainder of his foreshortened days while his life-blood is methodically drained away. But instantly, she shoves it aside, straightening her spine, reminding herself once more of who she is, reminding herself of the path she has now set herself upon. What does he matter, this feral blood bag, when they will never meet again?

By this time tomorrow, she will be gone: merely a ghost, a whisper, a strangled scream in the Immortan's throat. Soon, she will be with her Mothers and she will tell them her tale. And then, after so many days, thousands upon thousands of days, she will be free.


End file.
